Home
by Bason
Summary: A home is not made of bricks, but of love. The daily narration of Faberry.
1. The prettiest

**Disclaimer**: I do not own glee or any of its characters. If I did, I would have done the right thing, and made Faberry canon.

**Summary**: A home is not made of bricks, but of love. The daily narration of Faberry.

**Author's notes**: Let us keep the ship alive! This story is a series of one-shot drabbles of a Faberry tale I never got to write. Excuse me if they seem out of character, but its been years since I've seen Glee.

**The prettiest**

It makes sense to you, that the prettiest sight you have ever seen beheld the prettiest girl you have ever met.

It made less sense, to you and anyone else who might see it, that this vision was taking place in your garden.

It was a sight to behold. Unbelievable and magnificent. It took your breath away every morning in the same manner, for the same amount of time. Five. Ten. Fifteen minutes that should have been spent on your elliptical training your muscles for what was to come once you made it to Julliard. Instead they were spent gazing through your window, your slim frame slightly posed behind a curtain so as to be hidden… somewhat. It's not that you wanted to be a creeper, is that you did not want to disturb the mirage, lest it be broken.

There are beautiful things in this world that should never be interrupted. Lovely flowers that should never be plucked. Stunning creatures that should never be caged. Gorgeous beings, too divine for human intervention.

Quinn Fabray was one of those.

She had been for as long as you could remember. Untouchable no matter the circumstances. As head cheerleader she was too high on the hierarchy for you to reach. As personal bully she had created an impenetrable barrier impossible for you to break. As classmates, even as gleemates, the ambiguous distance put you as close to her as it took you far, far away from her friendship. And then as frenemies, the kind that would have gotten along if not for boys and social standing, as frenemies there was always the impromptu enemies part of it.

And now, now what where you to each other?

Housemates?

Housemates and still Quinn Fabray halted you where you stood. She amazed you and confused you all at the same time. How could a girl be so effortlessly beautiful so early in the morning? Had she awoken hours before you, without fuss or sound, just to make herself perfection? You always thought she must have had a rigorous grooming routine. That no girl could get to school without a flaw every single day and stay like that, as if in stasis, throughout every cheerios practice, glee and class.

No girl, except Quinn Fabray. And here she was not just proving you wrong but proving it an innate quality of hers.

It should have been a blow to your self-steem and maybe in a deep, ignored part of you the comparison did chip away at your ego. But in reality, you knew that comparing was a futile affair.

No one would ever even come close to Quinn Fabray's beauty.

You had always known. You had even told her with utmost sincerity. Had it reached her, you knew not, but you certainly hoped so.

And wasn't hope, apart from talent and positiveness, what you were mostly made off?

Wasn't hope what created the prettiest sight your eyes had witnessed, as well?

You took a step away from the window, unnoticed by the girl below, and made your way to the hallway. There was something about carpeted floors and Sundays. Lazy mornings and sock enveloped feet gliding through the fabric of the floor, down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Lonely Sundays that you used to have with your father's away at work, at church, at charity, gone on dates you never wanted to intrude. Your parents were full of love but not always around. And you were always invited, but never forced. In school you pushed yourself into every crevice you were never wanted in. At home you pick your places, tried to not incommode, to not be unbearable to the only people who love you. At home you are subdued, even when you are encouraged to be anything but. It's something that came with the bullying your parents will never know off.

The prettiest girl doesn't know of this yet. Or so you think, considering the fact that she has said nothing about it. You expect that she will soon.

For now, you reach into the cabinet and take out the coffee. If your classmates knew, they would argue that you, with your suffocating personality, did not need it. Truth was that you could not live without it. You start the coffee maker.

Almond milk comes next from the fridge. Also, regular, cow-tortured milk, for the pretty girl who loves bacon. Your dad most have gotten some that morning. Considerate as he was.

Your kitchen has a glass door that leads to the backyard where your daddy's petunias and lilies are. Where Quinn is watering them. You can see her actions from your place against the kitchen counter.

Your gaze moves as leisurely as the girl glides from one pot to the other, raining droplets on leaves and soil and petals. She's been there, at your house, a week at most. And yet she moves like she's been there longer. The soft morning wind plays with golden locks, moves them softly over her rosy cheeks. You wonder if it's the sun that's given her the halo that seems to surround her, or if it's her condition that brings forth a glow as surreal as the life you're are living right now, together, under the same roof, with the prettiest girl you have ever met.

The aroma of coffee must have reached the garden, because soon hazel eyes find their way into the kitchen. They reach yours as if drawn by a magnet, and lock. There's always this difficulty to swallow when she's staring at you in this way. In any way really, but in this precise moment, in the solitude and serenity of this Sunday morning, you realize it's harder to breathe. There's a lump in your throat that doesn't ease away even after her eyes fall on violet orchids.

She doesn't smile, she rarely does lately. And even then, it's a smile that pains her and all of those who see it. It certainly pains you. You wish she didn't. You wish she smiled a cruel smile, much closer to the pretty girl you know. You knew.

That pretty girl was beautiful albeit her unkindness, this pretty girl is beautiful within her sadness.

If that's not a sadist thought, you don't know what is.

The milk you had been heating up on the stove brings you back from your pensiveness. Moving quickly to prevent it from boiling all over the black surface, you pour it over one cup, adding next the freshly brewed coffee. The second cup with the almond milk doesn't need the heat. You like yours lukewarm because you drink it quickly. She likes hers boiling hot because she takes her time. She inhales it through the nose before her lips touch the rim of the cup. She takes small sips and ends up reheating it on the microwave two to three times before she finishes it. You have noticed.

It's an interesting quirk. Like her need to water the plants in someone else's house.

You take the cups to the garden, without worrying about a tray. It's only two cups and you can open the glass door with your foot.

Outside the breeze is colder than expected. She doesn't look up until you are sitting on a small white bench on the back porch. You place the cup half filled with cowmilk, half filled with black coffee, on the edge closest to her of a small table, adding a subdued smile to the silent invitation.

She doesn't smile still, but there's softness on the edges of her eyes that you had never seen before. And when she moves up the steps and takes the cup you hear a delicate "thanks" that squeezes your heart.

You watch the ritual. How her eyes close in something akin to contentment as she takes in the coffee's fragrance. How something like stress, pressure, weight, leaves her shoulders in the exact moment she takes a sip. How a relieved, or recharged breath leaves her lips, as she swallows.

Her eyes open to look at you and you are reminded of your own coffee. Now surely cold. Nonetheless you avert your own brown orbs to darker coffee and take a rather large gulp.

"It tastes normal." She says, making you frown in confusion.

"What do you mean?" You ask nonchalantly, looking up into hazel once again. It's still surprising to you when the things that come out of her mouth are not meant to insult or mock or ridicule. They are simple questions, descriptions or facts.

"Like normal milk."

You chuckle softly "That's because it is normal milk. My fathers' thought you would prefer it".

She nods, taking another sip. "That's kind of them."

"They are rather considerate." You add, because they are. How many parents would have taken a stranger into their home simply because their daughter begged them to? It's true you gave them quite a speech about it. A history lesson about the pretty girl's welfare, humanity and all that was right, but it's also true they conceded rather easily. You never got to the PowerPoint. Maybe it's because you are vehement about rather specific, unchanging things.

"As are you." You hear her say as she takes a sit on the top step.

You want to say that, '_not really'_, that '_you only did what was right_', that '_anyone would have done the same_', and yet you both know that is a lie. You were considerate as you always are, not always selflessly you must admit, but you always are, specially in reference to her. And it was right yes, but not anyone would have done it. Actually, nobody did. Nobody but you.

Instead, what you say is, "There's space up here, Quinn." In reference to the empty side of the bench you are sitting on.

She shrugs her small shoulders minutely, her gaze on the garden, the cup to her lips once again. A small sip of burning coffee, "I'm alright."

'_Are you really?_' You think, observing how she immerses herself in thought and view of gardenias, and orchids and petunias and all the flowers you know not the name off, but without a doubt Quinn does. Like your daddy. She must know them because she waters them with the same care.

"You really like flowers." It's both a question and a statement.

"I do."

"why?"

"Why?" she asks back. Why indeed. Why did you ask that? Why must there be a why. They are flowers. What's not to like? "Why not?"

"Why yes?" that must be the most grammatically incorrect thing you have ever uttered. Quinn must think so as well, if the quizzical look she gives you is anything to go by.

But you are curious. About her and what she thinks. How she thinks. You have always been curious, a little bit too much perhaps, about the prettiest girl you have ever met.

And you want to know, why? Lazy sunday mornings are anything but a time to have philosophical conversations. Open-ended questions are the last thing to ponder about at this time of day, and yet you can't stop them from blurting from your lips. Why do we like some things and others not? Why does she like flowers and cardigans and boiling hot coffee and not…

…and not you?

Did that still apply? Did she still not like you?

Probably. She was a girl prisoner of her circumstances.

Perhaps that was why. That and a million other reasons.

You drop the question and finish your coffee.

She doesn't, "Flowers exist to pretty the world, and for that gift they ask for nothing in return."

The veracity of that statement as well as the longing behind it, hit you hard. What exactly is she longing for, you can't quite put your finger on it. But there's confirmation, though you had never needed it, that Quinn has always been more than the prettiest girl you have ever met.

Its painful, to sit on the bench and gaze upon her profile and anger yourself over all the people that asked too much of a girl who had much to offer but not enough to fulfill their expectations.

"Sadly, people are not like flowers." You say. "We always ask for too much." '_And give too little_', your mind finishes.

Her reply is as startling as her eyes piercing yours, "Some people are."

And in that moment, you realize that you always thought yourself positive, even though deep within you, you always knew it to be a façade. At some point in your life your mantra became 'fake it till you make it', and you apply it most of all to your attitude. It's what gets you through high school, and what will get you on Broadway. But you of all people know that for now, it's nothing more than a mask. You place it upon your face and force people to look at it and accept it as truth. Whether they care or not.

In contrast to that kind of 'positivity' which you are, is Quinn. Here before you is a beaten girl whose been teared down by those she trusted the most. Here's a broken girl with nothing left but herself. Here's a beautifully vulnerable girl with no masks, nothing to hide anymore, who somehow found it within herself to believe there are people who would not wound her. Have you ever seen a more graphical description of positivity?

You haven't. Not in the mirror.

Who is she speaking off though? And how is it that she finds strength to believe that, when she has no one?

Well, no one but you, and your fathers.

You are amazed as you add more adjectives to that which is Quinn, the prettiest girl you have ever met who is more than that. She is also strong, and resilient, and hopeful.

"It's amazing that you can still think that way, Quinn." You admit.

"I've been proven wrong." She says, standing in one fluid motion. She extends her hand to you, palm up.

You stare at it and back up at her, questioning.

She raises an eyebrow, "Your cup Rachel."

You are slightly embarrassed. "Oh!" It's like you forgot you were holding anything at all. "No, don't worry, I can get it myself. Actually, you should be giving me yours."

You move to take hers, hospitable as you were raised to be with every visitor. Forgetting in the process that Quinn is no longer a visitor.

What stops you is a dainty palm on your shoulder and a firm, "Rachel."

It leaves no place for argument. She takes the cup, and for the first time in a week gives you the tiniest raise of her lips. Is that a smile? There's mirth behind her eyes, is there not? You see something akin to humor and find yourself slightly smiling as well. A shy smile, like when you are in the presence of a charming stranger.

Charming, another adjective for Quinn. Something swirls in your belly.

"How about breakfast?" She asks rhetorically.

You try to control the saucers your eyes are transforming into. What they say is, _'you cook vegan?_' What your lips say is, "You don't have to".

"I want to." She replies simply, turning to walk through the glass door but not before adding, "And yes I can cook vegan. It's a must of church camp."

Quinn walks into the kitchen leaving you to stare after her. She glides through the kitchen as she did over the garden. On the porch, the breeze is playing with your hair and freezing your sock clad feet, and still you feel heat on your cheeks. Not that you pay any of that any mind, because there's a vision in your kitchen.

A flower is drifting around your home and prettying your entire world.

**Fin? Continued?**

**A/N**: Well, that was a bit more angsty then expected, huh? It was certainly not my intention. It is also not a drabble, is it? It's over 2000 words so…I guess not.

In any case! I will write this as it comes to mind. So, if you enjoyed it, drop me a review! Let me know what you think, maybe even add a few prompts you would like to see? If they align with what I have (more or less) envisioned for this fic, I will most certainly add them.

Honestly, I have a million other things that I wanted to write about completely non-Faberry ships, and yet somehow ended up here. It's possibly because I went back to read Faberry. But as I said at the top, let us not let the ship die!

Anyway, review! They make writers happy, and happy writers write.


	2. Expectancy

**Disclaimer**: See chapter one.

**Expectancy**

For all the unexpected things you came to expect in the Berry household, a diluted Rachel Berry was not one of them.

It's true that you hadn't given much thought to how it would be to actually live with the Berry's. Others might have, even given their unescapable circumstances, spared a thought for musings about daily affairs alongside the famously obnoxious girl. But you didn't. Not when she approached you that evening after school. Shy but resolute; if such a thing exists.

In retrospect, you suppose her demeanor was not really that off the norm. Up till a few weeks back you had been Quinn Fabray, cheerios captain, most popular girl in school, in church, in…pretty much everywhere you went. You were also the bane of her existence. And that's without having to give her a slushie facial. Directly from your hands that is. Indirectly, you know you were the initiator of many.

In introspect, it seemed the most absurd thing for her to still feel so intimidated by you. You who had lost everything. You who were now below the lowest part of the McKinley hierarchy chain. If anything, it was the perfect opportunity for her to approach you with a grape slushie, of her own. You were alone, sitting on the bench waiting for a bus that would take you nowhere, because you had nowhere to go. There was no welcome at Finn's, there was no room at Pucks – not that you wanted it had there been– and you could not even go back home; your father had made sure of that. And so, you sat there under the burning sun and stared at the distance with sweat instead of tears running down your face and waited…for an epiphany perhaps.

It came in the form of Rachel Berry, who instead of a slushie made you an offer.

'_Would you like to stay at my house Quinn? I've already talked to my parents.' _She dared not even sit. Surely, she expected you to tear her a new one for her kindness. She had yet to know your fight as well as your words had been taken from you little by little with each day that you found yourself more and more alone. No one to talk to, to even fight with. Not even firecracker Santana spared you the time of day anymore.

It was easier to just nod. Rachel had smiled, surprised and happy for some reason that you could not fathom. Who could be happy with having to be in the presence of their tormentor 24/7? However, the saying 'Do not look a horse in the mouth' appeared in your mind and you followed the girl who had already picked up your bags to her car.

Customary Rachel Berry had talked all the way to her house while you half-listened. In the privacy that a/c and raised windows provided, you heard her say how there was a room for you already prepared, that you had nothing to worry about, that her dads would already be making food and she hoped you liked vegan but if you didn't they would accommodate. She looked over at you every few seconds, as if trying to make sure you were still in the passenger seat.

There was not much to say on your part. '_Thank you'_? Yes, you said that. And _'that's fine'_, because how could it not be? Even if she was the one to spill your unavoidable beans.

It was a relief when she understood that nothing more than short sentences would be leaving your mouth. No one had gotten anything more, not even yourself. And thus, her kindness extended to allowing you a ride in silence.

And in blankness.

Because most people would be wrecking their brains with what would come next, but you had already done that. You had done nothing but that since the moment you found out you were pregnant with Puck's baby. Brainstorming had become your favorite and most excruciating hobby in a futile attempt to prevent what you were going through right now. Social exile, pariah title…homelessness.

It had been a waste of time, among other things, and in that moment in Rachel Berry's car you really had nothing else to think about. Not even a thought left towards the fact that you were on your way to live with the Berry's. It was muscle memory to show gratitude to the Berry men and to say thanks for dinner. Afterwards, you retired to that room that had been waiting for you. It was white like the hospital's walls. Clearly, they never truly expected anyone to use it, for longer than a weekend. But the bed was comfortable, and the blankets were fuzzy and warm and even though you did not fall asleep as quickly as a mentally exhausted person usually does, once you did, it was bliss.

For a few hours, you had peace.

Until the next morning, when the brightness of the sun penetrated the windows and bounced over the white walls onto your face. Your eyelids fluttered softly, awakening your conscience to the knowledge that you really were in Rachel's house, sleeping in one of their rooms and that soon you would have to go down below to face the music.

God, you hoped there was no music. You couldn't really tell from the second floor, but Rachel was the personification of music itself and her parents were gay men! Yes, that was stereotypical and a cliché, but hey, so were you.

It was surprising to say the least, to descend to the first floor and find a generic atmosphere. The only melody that reached your ears came from the humming of a short man cooking what looked like scrambled eggs, though you couldn't be sure; Rachel was vegan, perhaps it was a substitute. Everyone else was silent. There was a rather tall man sitting on a long table in the middle of the kitchen, and Rachel sat beside him drinking what you thought was tea but ended up being coffee.

Imagination had run away with you and the rest of McKinley when envisioning the Berry household. Reality was awfully normal. There was no midget singing showtunes from corner to corner with gay men as her chorus. There was no over excitement at your presence, no smothering, no long speeches about new tomorrows.

There was the careful notice of your presence, the timid smiles, good mornings and invitations to sit at the table with them. There was a plate of what truly was hot eggs and bacon placed before you; the queries about it dying on your tongue in fear of being discourteous. And coffee, soul-encompassing coffee was also given to you without asking for explanations.

You wondered how much Rachel had spilled to her fathers. Surely everything. Had she mentioned how irresponsible you had been with Puck? How you lied to Finn in an effort to keep him as a security blanket? How not even your own parents wanted you anymore? Did she say all that and more so they would take pity on you, take you into their house as a charity case?

At the thought, your eyes had risen to the pairs of brown orbs that observed you from three different sides of the table. What you felt from those eyes took any bit of anger birthed from your own embarrassment. It had been weeks since you were looked at with such care and compassion.

So much sincerity was in their gaze, that the emotions you had been holding back for weeks, broke the dam that had been fortified by each rejection. Tears flowed freely down into your coffee.

There were petite arms around your neck then, and a strong and warm hand over your own which both broke and built you in one act.

That scene had been unexpected but welcomed.

That one of the Berry men was not a vegan had also been unexpected, though certainly appreciated.

But that from then on, you noticed how Rachel Berry was not even a fourth of what you had known her to be all your school life, was much less comprehensible.

If anything, you expected her to be a thousand times over the top considering she was in her own turf. But here she was, staring out the car's window, not even humming a tune to the song playing on the radio, while her parents chatted on the front seats. They added and subtracted items of the grocery list, what they needed minus what they had too much off, and still Rachel made no comment to better the process.

It made you wonder who was this girl sited beside you? The argyle was in place as well as the high stockings. But there was no melodrama or perfectionism. No overbearing insistence.

You lean into her space to whisper, "Are you okay?"

She startled slightly, as if she had been lost in her musings and forgotten where she was, and that you were right beside her. She smiled, "Of course, Quinn." and yet even her smile seemed downplayed.

Her eyes returned to the passing trees as you reincorporated in your seat. If she did not want to say, who were you to push her?

But it was odd.

There were two Rachel Berry's in your mind now, and unless the girl had double personality, one of them was fake.

That was not the odd part though. We all had masks that we wore most of the time in front of others, never taking them off until the moment we felt utterly comfortable.

The odd part was that you were not sure if this Rachel Berry was the comfortable one. Thus, the uncertainty made you question, that if she was, why did she play a character in school that got her bullied? And if she wasn't, why did she hide that part of herself at home when it had become apparent to you in these last few weeks, that unlike your own parents who molded you to be what they wanted you to be, Rachel's parents wanted nothing more than for her to be herself?

"Anything you want to add to the list, honey?"

Rachel looks quickly to the front seats, "Not really.", then, after pondering a bit more on the question, "Did you add Quinn's prenatal vitamins?"

It is simultaneously shocking and embarrassing, though you should probably be used to it by now, that this girl keeps putting you and your unborn child's wellbeing at the forefront of her mind.

You jump to rectify, "That's not necessary." It is, but they have already given you so much: a roof over your head, food in your plate, empathy for your heart. You could never ask for anything more.

Hiram, as you have been urged to call him, gifts you a sincere smile, kindness spilling from the corner of his eye. He quickly returns his sight to the rode, as he is the one driving, while Leroy replies for both of them, "Of course we already included that, honey. It's at the top of the list!"

He turns to show the two of you the aforementioned list that just as he said has '_Quinn's vitamins'_ written as number one. A gold star sticker right beside it. Rachel beams, satisfied, while you blush scarlet.

Hiram must have felt your abashment because he tries to divert the attention, "We can get them in the super pharmacy they have inside the supermarket. It has everything. It's seriously fucking amazing!"

"Hiram!" He gets quickly scolded by his husband. "What have I told you about that language?"

The profanity makes you chuckle under your breath, which makes the taller Mr. Berry grin. "Many things, but what's the point, Quinn's already used to it. Aren't you, Quinn?"

You say nothing but chuckle a bit more nervously, unsure on which side you are supposed to be on. The knowledge that is best to stay neutral came swiftly after only a few similar scenes. It was also much more amusing to do so. The Berry men are nothing if not entertaining, in a rather easygoing manner.

It was also amusing to find that Rachel did not seem to agree with you, if the hand on her forehead covering her view of her fathers was anything to go by.

"What if he or she hears it?" Leroy continues dramatically. It's something you would have expected Rachel to say. You suppose he's either the biological father, or nurture has won the fight over nature. But Rachel has remained silent in her embarrassment. You can feel the uncomfortableness radiating off the girl and decide to lighten her mood with a soft elbow to the side.

She lowers her hand and rewards you with a pliant smile.

Up front you hear Hiram defend himself, "We can just play showtunes on repeat. It'll erase it right off."

Rachel rolls her eyes, "That's not how it works dad."

To which the taller man outright laughs boisterously, annoying his husband in the process. "Tell him more, dear." Leroy says. "And tell me what else to add. Any snacks maybe?"

Instead of answering the repeated question, Rachel looks at you. You shake your head because there's nothing you want or need off the top of your head, not that you would right out ask even if there was.

"No, we are fine." She answers for the both of you, though its really just your answer. The oddity continues and it makes you feel like you want to ask about it, but you don't know exactly how to question her behavior.

"So healthy." Hiram jokes, slowing down the car. "Well if you girls change your mind, just add it to the cart. We are here!"

And change her mind Rachel did. Walking through the spacious and well-lit isles of the supermarket, you watched as she added item after item for your benefit with or without your consent; never minding if said items were vegan or not. Into the shopping cart went the Whole milk you agreed to because Hiram expressed his excitement over finally having 'real milk' in the house, as well as the yogurt you were almost threatened to choose a flavor for; you chose strawberry-banana. She added an assortment of legumes you were not particularly fond off, but which she read were a great source of fiber in your condition. Sweet potatoes, salmon for omega 3, more real eggs that almost made Hiram cry along with the egg substitute, broccoli and other leafy greens the nutritionist Sue Sylvester had already taught you to eat and delicious bacon the same coach had made sure you never even smelled. In between the amalgam of Quinn related products Rachel kept choosing, Leroy managed to add whole grain cereals, tofu, rice, olive oil and real fruits.

It was awfully mortifying to look at the cart and realize almost half of it was meant for you. Even more so when you jokingly mentioned this, reminding them it was not necessary, just to have all three Berry's turn to contradict you with _'It most certainly is.'_

By the time the four of you are walking by the frozen products isle, the berry men pushing the cart a few feet up front deciding what juices to take home, a bit of irk has slipped into your voice, "How about you pick some things for yourself, Rachel?"

She is inspecting the ice cream fridge as she replies, "I have."

You make a mental recount of everything that has been picked, "No, you haven't."

"Of course, I did." She walks to a second fridge.

"Like what?" You ask, truly perplexed. She is distracted in her search of something. You hope it's not some kind of organic ice cream for you.

It isn't. She's staring at a box with a rather creamy looking vanilla ice cream in the front, made of caramel, almonds and specifically French vanilla cream.

"The almond butter." She finally says as a matter of fact.

True, there is rather expensive almond butter in the cart, but "That's for everyone, Rachel, and your dad chose that.

She shrugs her small shoulders, "I'm still going to eat from it." Then turns to walk up to her dads.

Even with her short legs, you still must take big steps to reach the quick little midget. "That doesn't count. What about the ice cream you were ogling just now?"

"You want ice cream Rachel?" Hiram's query makes the girl pause.

"No! It's not even vegan." Just like half the things in the cart, you inwardly exclaim. "Anyway, I remembered something else. I'll be right back."

And with that she disappears around the corner. It leaves you baffled. You have never seen a kid with such inviting parents that controlled herself so much.

"Has she always been like this?"

Leroy takes an orange bottle that says, 'Mango and Carrot juice: not from concentrate' and places it on the cart. "Not always," he says thoughtfully, "But for a while."

"She used to overfill the cart with every vegan snack she could find." Hiram reminisces. He then shrugs and quips "Maybe she realized that not because it's vegan, means it's healthy."

Leroy squints at him, "It's certainly healthier than those chips you have there." He reaches to pat the big man's belly, "You should take a page from your daughter's book!"

You snigger, already adept at recognizing half insults and pseudo-glares from the Berry men, even when you never saw such a thing in your old house. Back there, few things were said without malice or hidden intentions. You are learning the difference.

The Berry's are as easy to read as they are to be around. Which is what makes it obvious to you that Rachel has returned with anxiety instead of with whatever she had gone to look for.

She looks tightly sprung as she nears the cart.

"It's everything alright, dear?" Leroy asks just as you are about to.

"Yes!" She almost shouts at them, "It's just that I found the pharmacy." before turning to you, "We should go get your vitamins Quinn."

You are instantly pulled along the aisle in the same direction you entered, which is strange, considering she returned with this information from the other side of the store. Your time to question this is nonexistent though, as she turns the corner and practically runs, dragging you by the wrist into a rather bright part of the supermarket.

Hiram was right, this pharmacy is fucking amazing. So very organized as well. A Rachel Berry's dream surely. Or so you would think, but the smaller girl is still pulling you to the farthest corridor from the pharmacy's entrance, barely looking at any of it. You are almost certain that you left the vitamins section like two corridors behind.

When she stops before the antacids you are finally able to break your arm free from her clutch. "Rachel! What's gotten into you?"

She dares look at you as if she has no idea what you are talking about. "Nothing! I just thought we should get your vitamins before we forget!"

"How could we forget? You have only been mentioning them since I moved in." You ask sarcastically, rubbing your wrist. That small body is deceivingly strong.

She giggles sheepishly and says, "Better safe than sorry." But you notice that she's looking to a place behind your head instead of straight onto your face.

You turn around in search of whatever she's looking at. There's nothing, but to be sure you ask, "What are you looking at?"

She's quick to respond, "The vitamins!"

The stare that accompanies your raised eyebrow says _'What? _To which you add_, _"By the door?"

"No silly." She's already moving to another part of the pharmacy by the time you realize she has no intention of explaining anything at all.

And you think, silly? She's the silly one with her weird behavior. And yet, this has been the most familiar she's acted in the last weeks. You opt to let it go for the moment, in place of telling the girl the exact passageway the multivitamins are in before she ends up retrieving baby diapers you wont need for another seven and a half months.

Or at least, that's the intention, if it weren't for the small arms that grasp around your hips and push you back as soon as you round the corner.

"Rachel!" You shout, because again, what's with this strength?

"Why don't you look in this aisle and I'll find out where the vitamins are?" She says, speaking over every indignant sound you've made while still pushing on your hips.

You stand your ground, your body seeming to finally remember that it is almost half a foot taller than the girl shoving it.

The accumulating irritation can't be held back when you say, "It's two aisles down, Rachel."

"Great! I'll go get it." She almost sings, but this time you won't let her escape. You are tired of being pulled around like a ragdoll, but have no problem returning the favor by taking her elbow and keeping her in place.

"What's going on Rachel?" It's a demand that quickly dies away when the motion of turning her around reveals worrisome eyes.

"Nothing. Just stay here, please." She pleads.

But, "why?"

The answer arrives carried by a third voice. "Quinn, is that you?"

You watch as Rachel closes her eyes in a grimace. A few feet away from you both its Mercedes, and suddenly everything makes sense. The pulling, the running, the hiding. All in an effort to spare you an encounter she surely thought you were not ready for. After all, you haven't been to school in almost three weeks.

There's a squeeze on your heart as you realize that Rachel Berry has done it again. She's made all the stops in her incomprehensible aim to help you.

For once however, it is not needed. You let go of Rachel's elbow and stretch your spine to its full height. Your tone is neutral, your features placid. "Hello Mercedes."

"Girl, how have you been? Actually, _where_ have you been?" the sincere concern in her voice mellows you a tad. From every glee member, classmate and apparent friend you had in high school, Mercedes has always been the most genuine; putting Rachel aside, of course. The thing about Mercedes was that, there was no bad blood between you two.

There was also no reliability. There was a second after you had been thrown out to be picked up by no one in which you thought that out of all those you knew Mercedes might be the one to help you out. She wasn't. Like the rest, she stood by the sidelines and watched as you drifted from classroom to lunchroom to bench, always utterly alone.

Because there was no bad blood between you, but there was also no real bond. You weren't really friends, you were classmates. You were courteous with one another, sometimes even friendly, yet that was the extend of it. A circumstance like this might have helped build a bridge that would strengthen that could-be-friendship, except that she never reached, and you never pulled.

Nonetheless, as there are no hard feelings, you smile politely, "I've been staying at Rachel's."

Said girl flinches beside you. At the same time, Mercedes eyes have turned to saucers, which is understandable. Not in a million years nor in any other dimension would anyone, including yourself, believe something like this could happen. And yet here you are, gratefully so.

The thick girl seems to finally acknowledge Rachel's presence, having been previously focused on you, "Wow that's…amazing." She's speechless.

Mercedes can't get over her surprise, though you are certain that she can only be half as astounded as you were when Rachel invited you to live with her. You look over at the small brunette, who for some unknown reason has become smaller the longer Mercedes is present.

You can't understand what's going through her head. Or why she's biting her lip anxiously. She hasn't boisterously greeted Mercedes or inserted her long-winded opinion about your situation. If anything, she's remained stoic throughout the whole exchange. Silent and unmovable. Her eyes jumping from the darker girl to you every few seconds. Her demeanor hesitant.

At Rachel's silence, surely, Mercedes adds, "It's also really nice of you, Rachel."

A brown gaze halts over your amicable classmate. She places a lock of hair behind her ear, a tick that appears when she's feeling particularly timid, a blush accompanying it.

The flush on her cheeks darkens when you wholeheartedly agree, "It is."

Rachel flicks her eyes to you but says nothing, with something in them that you can't define. Mercedes giggles without malice, "Though I have to say, never in a million years…"

She's out right laughing now. The crinkles around your eyes share in her mirth until a booming voice is heard from somewhere outside the pharmacy.

Mercedes stops laughing at once, "Oh shit, that's ma." She's looking towards the entrance as if expecting the woman to appear right behind her. "Guess I'll see you at school?"

"Yeah." You lie, not in the mood to give anyone an explanation.

Your classmate's name reverberates through the supermarket and she hurries to leave. "Great! Gotta go!"

"Bye." You wave her off, amused at how different someone's personality can be when in the presence of their parents.

Which brings you back to the biggest proof of that statement. You cross your arms over your chest, happy that there's still no belly to rest them on, and assess the shorter girl.

She's staring after Mercedes until she notices your curious frown. A look of deer caught in headlights covers her features then. It would be funny, if you had no need for answers.

"What's wrong?" She dares ask.

"That's what I'm wondering."

"What do you mean?"

"You were strangely silent."

"You would prefer I speak?" It's the first sarcastic comment you've heard from her all day, maybe longer. It's shocking how refreshing you find it.

So much so, that your reply is a decisive, "Yes."

The definite answer takes her aback, but she's quick to recover, "Well…I was just unsure on what I could say?"

"Could say?" What does that even mean?

"You know what I mean Quinn." She's shaking her head, as if the answer was obvious. It is not to you.

"No, I don't. Please explain." It doesn't come out as nice as it should have because you have been wrecking your brain about this girl's behavior all day, and she has done nothing but evade your questions.

She sighs like she too is tired, "I didn't want to say something that would put you in an uncomfortable position."

An uncomfortable position? An uncomfortable position is hard benches and harder floors. Homelessness and loneliness. "Like what?"

A glimpse of high school Rachel Berry comes out with a huff and a stomp of her foot, "Oh I don't know Quinn, maybe like been seen with me? Like them knowing you are actually living with me? You know Mercedes is going to tell Kurt and Kurt will spread it through the entire school faster than Karofsky drops a slushie over my head."

She says this with the vehement belief that you actually care about any of that. You don't. Not anymore. "So?"

"What do you mean, so?" She looks at you like you are inconceivable. "I know you don't want them to know. They'll put us together and you'll be branded a loser too."

You stare at her unbelievably. So that's what this is about. It's incredibly ridiculous to you, that she's given more than a thought to your social standing in the McKinley hierarchy when that couldn't be the farthest thing from your mind.

It's infuriating, that she would dare take herself off the picture just to keep your image intact, so that she wouldn't soil the impeccable image of Quinn Fabray. "Rachel, I became a lima loser the moment I got pregnant. It has nothing to do with you."

You storm off, far away from the ludicrous girl and out of the pharmacy, because this is also hurtful. For some reason, it pains you that even though she's been the only one who has been there for you in your greatest time of need, she keeps putting herself down while you and everyone else remain posed in an unreachable pedestal. Why?

You hear the footsteps following you, but you ignore them. She's calling your name and demanding to know where you are going. You keep your sight straight until you reach the ice cream aisle you had been before this whole ordeal began. The Berry men are no longer there. It's been a while since Rachel and you went to the pharmacy, so they might as well be at the cash register already. You'll find them soon enough. First you open the fridge to take out the French vanilla ice cream Rachel had been practically salivating over before.

"Quinn, what are you doing? I said I didn't want it." The reflection in the closed fridge door shows you a crossed arm Rachel.

You turn to face her, "Well, now I do." then walk away from her in the direction of the cash registers. There's a distinct expel of air that resembles a sigh, but you disregard that as well.

Somewhere in your deep conscience, you realize your actions are somewhere in between considerate vengeance and spiteful reward, but you haven't paid much attention to your conscience recently. Or…ever really.

You smile at Hiram who is waving at you from the cashier number four.

"Rachel changed her mind?" He asks taking the ice cream from your hands.

Rachel has been taking her time to reach you. When you look over, she's still dragging her feet with her arms crossed and a pout on her lips. She looks pitiful. So, you reply, "Yes."

0-0

The ride back home was spent in a similar way as the ride to the supermarket. Rachel's fathers talking on the front seats while Rachel gazed out the window. They didn't seem to notice the change in atmosphere, though to be honest, you weren't even sure what the change was about. You just knew that Rachel's reasons for…protecting you? Bothered you.

By the time you had made it to the Berry household and accommodated the groceries, it was already past eight in the evening. The sun had disappeared over the horizon and with it Rachels' dads' had gone off to bed, claiming an early morning.

Standing behind the kitchen counter you had clear view of Rachel sitting in the living room, as she often was in the evenings. Her legs were up on the sofa, a couch pillow pressed between them and her chest. She was immersed in some random show you could not identify from your spot. It would have been an habitual sight, if it weren't for the downcast eyes.

You pick the two ice cream filled cups you had been preparing, and cross the archway into the living room. The slight jump of her shoulders alerts you that she didn't expect you to join her, much less was she expecting the cup you drop on her palms.

She looks troubled for a few seconds, her eyes going from the cup to you and back. You imagine she's deciding if she should restart what might have been your first argument in that house, "Quinn, I can't."

You dip your spoon in the ice cream. It's harder than you expected, while still maintaining its creaminess. You recall the price tag, reaching to almost ten dollars. For an hour of minimum wage, this ice cream had better taste like glory. "Why not? I know you want to."

"It's not even vegan." Rachel refutes.

"Half of the things in the cart were not vegan, Rachel." You place the first spoonful of ice cream in your mouth. Yeap, definitely high quality. The almonds give it that finishing touch.

"True, but half of the things in that cart were not for me."

"Only because you wouldn't choose anything." You remark, and while you are at it, "Which I keep wondering, why?"

"Why what?"

"Why wont you choose anything. You won't ask for anything in this house, even when your dads tell you to."

She shrugs and softly spoken says, "I don't ask for unnecessary things."

You stare at her like she's an exotic animal, swirling the spoon in your mouth. She might as well be. The strangest creature you have ever encountered. Constantly changing, evolving, transforming. Qualities of rare species and great actresses alike. "That's really different from high school Rachel Berry."

She laughs shortly, "I suppose so. I guess I'm more laid back at home."

She says so nonchalantly, like it's a truth. But something in you, the intuition your mother swears by, tells you it's something else.

"That's not it." She looks at you in challenge, you continue your statement, "If you were more laid back, you would eat the freaking ice cream that's currently melting away."

Such a waste of glorious ice cream.

She huffs indignantly, "One thing has nothing to do with the other, Quinn Fabray." And yet, she looks down at the ice cream with the same longing she did at the supermarket.

You change tactics, "Suit yourself."

The art of teasing came in handy most of all in the Celibacy Club, that is not to say that you could not extrapolate its advantages to other scenarios. Taking a bigger spoonful of ice cream into your mouth, you overdraw the deliciousness of the concoction.

"This is so good. You don't know what you are missing, Berry."

You can almost feel her eyeroll. "You won't convince me Fabray."

You moan slightly louder, but not loud enough to wake up her parents. That would be embarrassing. It is an honest to God reaction though. Every part of that ice cream is seriously tasty. Perhaps not in wardrobe, but Rachel clearly has great taste in sweets. You feel like she would probably never steer you in a wrong direction when it comes to desserts.

Her voice breaks into a squeal that almost breaks you out of character, "I'm vegan!"

"It's made with milk, not beef!" You argue, getting fed up. Seriously the only reason you picked this ice cream was because she wanted it. You know it. She knows it. What's with the denial.

"Still!" She pushes the cup you brought her back into your hands.

Ungrateful. This just won't do, but fine. You take the cup willingly, place your own on the coffee table as if you had finished with it, then proceed to take a spoonful of Rachel's almost completely melted ice cream and shove it right into her mouth.

As expected, the girl shrieks, and then swallows in an effort to not choke on ice cream.

"Quinn!" She hollows, coughing, but you are too busy brushing the tears that fell of your eyes in your laughing fit to pay any mind to her indignation.

Once you regain your breath, you say "Isn't it good?" Like sprinkling salt over a wound.

The glare is familiar and welcomed. It reminds you of a Rachel Berry that stomps out of glee when denied a solo.

What's not familiar is the way you try to appease the girl, and yet somehow it comes naturally, "If it makes you feel any better, the cow didn't die for this milk."

Her eyes squint at you, amusing you even more, "That's horribly cynic of you."

Your grin shows that you are aware of that quality. Horrible cynicism, waiting behind your sarcasm, rarely witnessed for you don't spend enough time with anyone for it to show. With Rachel is different, though. Not only because you are living together, but because she takes it in stride.

You offer the cup to her one more time, knowing full well that she just can't say no after having a taste. She tries though, controlling her urges for all of two seconds.

You smirk, picking up what's left of your own ice cream from the coffee table. On the tv, some old cartoons continue to play in low volume.

Musings of how inappropriate it would be to get up for a second helping are interrupted by the sound of vulnerability. Coming from her, you would have been able to identify it a mile away. The countless occurrences where she has opened up before you during the year has given you that ability. Polished it even.

"Why did you tell the truth to Mercedes?"

She's staring deep into the abyss of her ice cream cup. It's clear to see she's wary of your answer, but the only thing that pops up in your mind, as it has for the entire day, is the contrast between this subdued Rachel and the annoyingly loud one that's ever present at school.

You keep asking yourself, which one is real?

The confident, overbearing version? Or the version that's still asking herself about motives that are so very evident to you?

There are so many ways to answer truthfully. '_Because you have been kind to me, when I didn't deserve it.' 'Because I don't want to make you feel less anymore.' 'Because I'm sorry.' _

But when you take too long to answer and big brown orbs reach up to pin yours, you go with facts, "Well…my parent's have disowned me, Finn abandoned me, true he had his reasons." You concede. "Then there's Puck's fantastical half offers, and the fact that none of my so-called friends where nowhere to be found when I needed them the most…none except you."

Your eyes are unwavering in the stillness of the night. It must be the moon that's making you this honest. Or this girl's eagerness to hear more.

"I'm not sure if we have ever been friends." She comments, spinning her spoon inside the cup.

"We haven't." You agree. That is not to say that you could not try. "But we are housemates now."

She chuckles, "And that triumphs friends?"

"I would think so." You say with a shrug.

She's silent for a beat, "Is that why, then?"

You nod, "That, the fact that I'm too grateful to you to hide any of this and…do you really think I care what anyone in that school thinks of me or…about anything at all?"

She shakes her head without lifting it from the back of the sofa, a half joke on her lips "Quinn Fabray is no pushover."

You acquiesce, as if her words were more factual than evolution itself. Lies is what they are, though. Just one more of those many masks everyone wears. Lord knows you had plenty. Back then things had just shifted too quickly for you to realize what had been pulling and pushing you in different directions.

You ended up being a pushover who had been pushed over the edge.

Sometimes you think that Rachel can see each one of your masks. Other times you think she can see behind them. It's the looks that she gives you, like she sees something more, something else entirely.

In those moments, like in this one, time and space become suffocating.

You wrench your eyes from hers, stare at the tv instead, "Flintstones?"

"Do you want to watch a musical?"

"Flintstones it is!" She laughs, already expecting your answer.

You make yourself comfortable against one of the armrests and she does the same against the opposite one, except she's laying on her side, her head above the couch pillow. Soon she's asleep, but you still watch the Flintstones for an hour or so more. And in between you watch her, this mystery of a girl whose actions you have yet to decipher. You wonder if you ever will, right before sleep takes you as well. It will be around one in the morning, when one of you will wake up and send the other to bed.

And thus, are your weekends with the Berry's, where you are taught to expect the unexpected.

Continued?

**A/N**: There was supposed to be a funny scene right there in the Mercedes scene…. I have no idea where it went. I guess this is going to be a rather angsty story. I hope you enjoyed it, nonetheless.

If so, leave me a review! Thanks for reading!


End file.
